Not So Mysterious Stranger
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Molly comes home from a long day at Barts to find... a not-so stranger in her bed. Sherlolly, platonic or romantic depending how you view it. Inspired by Molly saying "my bedroom" in HLV and making me think that Sherlock uses her house as a bolt-hole... Set after the So3, at the very least.


**Not So Mysterious Stranger**

Molly sighed as she let herself into her flat, smiling as she received her usual greeting: Toby came padding into the hallway and meowed, wrapping himself around her legs.

"Hey, Toby," she murmured, bending down to scratch under his chin. "Been a busy day for you, too?"

Toby meowed again as though to agree - although Molly knew it hadn't; there was only so much a cat could do by himself - and trotted away, his tail swishing through the air. Molly smiled faintly but didn't follow him. Instead, she unbuttoned her coat and pulled off her scarf, hanging them up tiredly. It _had_ been a long day. She was looking forward to a hot cuppa and the Eastenders and cuddling down with Toby on the sofa.

First things first, though: out of the lab clothes and into something comfortable, like sweatpants and a jumper and a hot shower. She wandered back to her bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

She came to a sudden stop when she noticed the figure in her bed, clad in black with a mop of messy hair pressed against her own pillow.

"Sherlock?" she asked, stepping forward. "Sherlock?"

His back was to Molly, so she walked to the other side as quietly as possible. She didn't know if he was awake, or even why he was here, but Sherlock never turned up without a reason, especially not since he was back in London with his friends.

Sherlock's keen eyes fixed on the far wall meant that he was awake, but the fact that he didn't look up at Molly meant he was off in his own world. He was still wearing his coat, but his scarf was just a blue cashmere pool on the floor. His arm was hanging off the bed, so he had either just dropped it or was reaching for it, but he seemed to have lost his train of activity sometime in the midst of the action. The buttons on his purple shirt were straining beneath his lapels and Molly could see the tension without even looking at his shoulders.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly, bending over him slightly. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied. His voice was a monotone and he didn't blink when he spoke.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked carefully. She never knew what to say when Sherlock was in a strop. One wrong word and he would fly off the handle, clam up. Sherlock being in any kind of emotional state was a Sherlock that Molly hadn't quite learned how to approach yet.

"Nothing."

Molly fought the urge to both frown and sigh. She was about to turn away and just let Sherlock work through whatever he had to work through on his own - he had come here and just slept on the sofa some nights without an uttered syllable - when she had a thought. She crouched down next to the bed again, in Sherlock's direct line of sight.

"Did something happen with John?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock's nose scrunched up in a way of disgust before the emotionless mask fell back into place. It was response enough.

"What happened?" Molly pried. She didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but Sherlock would either stew or storm away and stew somewhere else.

"Nothing happened," Sherlock said dully. He moved his arm and pushed off from the mattress, shuffling over onto his back. His gaze immediately went to the ceiling.

"Something happened," Molly retorted.

Sherlock's chest expanded with a heavy sigh that he blew out through his nose a second later. "Nothing happened," he repeated. "And _don't_ say it. I know what you're thinking. 'Something had to have happened for him to show up at my house', but it _really_ didn't."

Molly did sigh this time. "Well, you don't just come to my house to see me," she muttered, turning away.

Sherlock sighed, audibly, again. "Molly..."

"It's fine," Molly said, grabbing her jumper and trousers off the chair.

"No, Molly, I... my flat's just too quiet sometimes," Sherlock muttered.

Molly looked back at him. He'd draped his arm over his eyes. "So you come to my silent flat?" she asked critically. "Did you forget that I had to work today?"

"I never forget," Sherlock said without moving.

Molly felt vaguely embarrassed by the quick, sharp way Sherlock had responded, but then, she felt mostly embarrassed by anything he said pertaining to her. But that wasn't the point here. The point was that she still didn't know why he was here and he was speaking in riddles and rhymes. His flat was too quiet? What did that even mean? He was Sherlock. He thrived on silence. Lived in silence all his life, except for...

Molly stopped short again. His flat was too quiet... Was that Sherlock-code for... being lonely? That he missed John? Of course he would have gotten used to living with him for almost two years before faking his death and he had come back planning to go right back to the same lifestyle. But things had changed: John had gotten a girlfriend while he'd been out and gotten engaged nearly at the same time he'd returned. As much as he'd thrown himself into John's wedding, they'd still been spending time together and now... John was married. There was no more planning, no more preparing. John and Mary were a couple, but Sherlock was now the singularity.

"... Oh," Molly mumbled.

Sherlock peeked at her from under his arm, his expression unreadable.

Molly smiled meekly. "Would you, um... like a cup of tea? And I just bought some new chocolate biscuits yesterday, haven't tried them yet if you want..." She thumbed in the direction of her kitchen, silently questioning.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, the inquisitiveness quickly rushing back to his gaze. He smiled, a bit awkwardly, if Molly thought, and moved his arm away from his face entirely. "Yes," he said simply.

Molly smiled back at him and abandoned her change of clothes in favour of offering her hand to Sherlock.

He looked at it blankly before reaching up and taking it, allowing her to help him back to his feet. At least he accepted help now and again, Molly thought as she led the way down the hall. Physically _and_ mentally.

"Are we going to watch Eastenders?" Sherlock asked as he trailed behind her into the kitchen.

Molly glanced up from the kettle, eyebrows raised. "You want to watch Eastenders?"

Sherlock opened one of the cabinets, pulling the canister of the loose-leaf Lady Grey tea that Molly kept there. "_You_ want to watch Eastenders," he replied wisely.

Molly smiled faintly, again, as she turned back to the kettle. "You're welcome to watch it with me, you know."

"I know," Sherlock said softly. "Trust me, Molly... I always know."

When he leaned over and pressed his lips against her temple in a kiss, this time it seemed so natural that Molly didn't even flush. She did, however, slop water from the tap all over her shirt when she realised what he'd done.

Sherlock simply laughed and reached for the paper towels, offering them to her wordlessly with a small, yet genuine smile.

* * *

**GUYS I DON'T SHIP THIS. But it's so freaking cute, semi-platonic Sherlolly. Dedicated to ScribeofRED because she is the reason I got around to writing this! :D**

**I do not own _Sherlock_ (or _Eastenders_, obviously xD). Thank you!**


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